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An Ideal Husband de Oscar Wilde

An Ideal Husband

Autor Oscar Wilde
en Limba Engleză Paperback – sep 2000
Wilde's subtle satire of the British hypocrisy of the late 1800s toys with the vulnerability of public figures and the powerful playing card of dirty secrets. An Ideal Husband portrays the delicate balance between righteousness, love, and betrayal, and serves it up with a generous smattering of wit and elegance.
Recently filmed with Rupert Everett, Cate Blanchett and Julianne Moore.
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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9781854594600
ISBN-10: 1854594605
Pagini: 128
Dimensiuni: 106 x 160 x 12 mm
Greutate: 0.1 kg
Ediția:Revised edition
Editura: Theatre Communications Group
Locul publicării:United Kingdom

Descriere

Part of the affordable and recognizable Drama Classics Series.

Textul de pe ultima copertă

Although Oscar Wilde (1854 1900) created a wide range of poetry, essays, and fairy tales (and one novel) in his brief, tragic life, he is perhaps best known as a dramatist. His witty, clever drama, populated by brilliant talkers skilled in the art of riposte and paradox, are still staples of the theatrical repertoire.
"An Ideal Husband" revolves around a blackmail scheme that forces a married couple to reexamine their moral standards providing, along the way, a wry commentary on the rarity of politicians who can claim to be ethically pure. A supporting cast of young lovers, society matrons, an overbearing father, and a formidable femme fatale continually exchange sparkling repartee, keeping the play moving at a lively pace.
ike most of Wilde's plays, this scintillating drawing-room comedy is wise, well-constructed, and deeply satisfying. An instant success at its 1895 debut, the play continues to delight audiences over one hundred years later. "An Ideal Husband" is a must-read for Wilde fans, students of English literature, and anyone delighted by wit, urbanity, and timeless sophistication."

Notă biografică

IntentionsOscar Wilde Cyril (coming in through the open window from the terrace): My dear Vivian, don't coop yourself up all day in the library. It is a perfectly lovely afternoon. The air is exquisite. There is a mist upon the woods, like the purple bloom upon a plum. Let us go and lie on the grass and smoke cigarettes and enjoy Nature. Vivian: Enjoy Nature! I am glad to say that I have entirely lost that faculty. People tell us that Art makes us love Nature more than we loved her before that it reveals her secrets to us and that after a careful study of Corot and Constable we see things in her that had escaped our observation. My own experience is that the more we study Art, the less we care for Nature. What Art really reveals to us is Nature's lack of design, her curious crudities, her extraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition. Nature has good intentions, of course, but, as Aristotle once said, she cannot carry them out. When I look at a landscape I cannot help seeing all its defects. It is fortunate for us, however, that Nature is so imperfect, as otherwise we should have no art at all. Art is our spirited protest, our gallant attempt to teach Nature her proper place. As for the infinite variety of Nature, that is a pure myth. It is not to be found in Nature herself. It resides in the imagination, or fancy, or cultivated blindness of the man who looks at her. Cyril: Well, you need not look at the landscape. You can lie on the grass and smoke and talk. Vivian: But Nature is so uncomfortable. Grass is hard and lumpy and damp, and full of dreadful black insects. Why, even Morris's poorest workman could make you a more comfortable seat than the whole of Nature can. Nature pales before the furniture of 'the street which from Oxford has borrowed its name,' as the poet you love so much once vilely phrased it. I don't complain. If Nature had been comfortable, mankind would never have invented architecture, and I prefer houses to the open air. In a house we all feel of the proper proportions. Everything is subordinated to us, fashioned for our use and our pleasure. Egotism itself, which is so necessary to a proper sense of human dignity, is entirely the result of indoor life. Out of doors one becomes abstract and impersonal. One's individuality absolutely leaves one. And then Nature is so indifferent, so unappreciative.